Solo Travel Is The Reason I Love Being Single

Shani Silver
7 min readFeb 14, 2018

I don’t know…what do you wanna do? LOL.

Travel places where normal streets look like fairy tales. Hot tip.

“Hi Shani, thanks so much for being so speedy! This is a fun read, but as is I unfortunately don’t think this is really going to work for us — the parts added back in make it a bit of a tone mismatch for the site, and it seems like you want to keep your voice intact, which we wouldn’t be able to do. If you could go ahead and send me an invoice for the 25% kill fee, I’ll get all your paperwork processed.”

As the iPhone struck midnight on New Year’s Eve, I realized I’d be single for a decade. In another time, or another insipid rom-com plot, that thought might have ground me into dust. But 2018, for all its faults and Tide Pods, is going to be a great year–because I have plans to travel alone.

My trendy millennial-magnet suitcase and I are rolling out of here this March, headed for Paris and London, with nothing more than excitement, several pairs of black leggings, and a travel journal in tow.

Sadness, fear, and feelings of inadequacy don’t pack well.

But that’s all I had for a really long time. I didn’t think I could travel, because I didn’t have anyone to travel with. There were girls trips and weddings (not helping), but there was never a moment when the instinct to wander struck that I actually took it up on its offer. I wasn’t going anywhere, in any sense of the word. I was stuck at home and stuck feeling like being single was a bad thing.

Whether it comes from societal influence or it’s self-imposed I’m not sure, but for far too long I thought of being single as a negative, and a negative only. I couldn’t see the genuine benefits of being single that I’d miss someday. This went on for years, and while several things can take credit for curing it, including time and the natural pairing of wisdom and age, traveling alone really deserves the byline.

Go back and see it all again at night. Highly recommend.

Fomo has a boiling point. I think mine took about seven years to come to temp. I could credit Instagram with my inner seething rage, the constant flow of beach-at-sunset, Sonoma-at-sunrise fodder that I always knew I wanted, but didn’t feel…